


Diamonds out of the dust

by mosslover



Series: Darkhawk Romeo & Juliet AU [3]
Category: Poldark - All Media Types, Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Dilemmas, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Sexual Content, Starting a new life, Uncertainty, figuring life out, set after the main story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosslover/pseuds/mosslover
Summary: Ross and Jim set out to carve out a new life of their own, free of the burden of their past and their families. Yet despite their shared relief and excitement, Ross sometimes wonders if Jim has second thoughts.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My_Trex_has_fleas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/gifts).



> This story follows after the regular version of the story, not the alternate ending :)
> 
> This be mostly fluff... Written for Trex' birthday :)

The day they hit the road, there are stripes of sun cutting through clouds on the horizon. Lady Hawkins stands on the steps of the mansion, clutching at her son, saying things that are understood and need to be said anyway in moments like this. 

“Call us often. And drive safely – both of you – let us know if there is anything you that we can send –“

Jim nods dutifully to each of those requests, though the last nod at least is a pretense. They’d agreed they will do this with just a smidge of their savings, nothing else, no help. Cash in their pockets to tide them over at first but then just whatever they manage to earn. They want the ties cut clean, like scissors through the stitches of a healing wound. No past. Just future, whatever they can make of it.

Jim extricates himself with difficulty from the embrace, kisses his mother’s damp cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

She watches him go, standing there like a statue among the pillars supporting the massive balcony, motionless except for rolling tears. Somewhere inside the house, Lord Hawkins still holds on to last remnants of disapproval at his son’s departure, not meeting Jim or Ross for the final goodbyes. 

Just as well; it means they can leave faster.

It is odd though, Ross thinks as he watches Jim walk down to meet him with a bright smile illuminating his face; it is massively odd to not be an illicit stranger here on these premises, on these very steps where on a twinkling night over a month ago, he’d stood clad in a costume, armed with a faked invitation and harboring a troubling premonition. What that night has set off-

Ross shivers with the memory, shaking it off as his young husband reaches the bottom of the steps and stops just before him. He’d do it all over again, risk everything for the smile on Jim’s face.

“Ready?” Jim says.

There’s a lively, adventurous spark in his blue eyes; eyes which were nothing but muted and resigned on the first night of their acquaintance. Ross had met Jim’s defeated look head-on with daring and defiance until Jim finally responded in kind and the two of them blazed a riotous path of change through the city, surprising everyone including themselves. 

“After you,” Ross grins.

 

As the sun climbs past the clouds, the wheels of their car and bike leave long stretches of road behind them, eating each inch of asphalt, chewing it up and spitting it out again. With each yard and each mile, Ross’ joy increases by a small increment; every road sign makes his heart sing with more hope. They really did it; they turned the tides, they shifted the status quo that has been ingrained in them since their birth. They grappled with fate and won and this was their chance to shape constellations of their own and toss them up into the night skies.

Sun and clouds reflect off Jim’s black helmet as his motorcycle rumbles steadily twenty feet ahead of Ross’s car. Ross’ music marks the passing of time between each of their stops: filling up the gas, eating lunch in the corner of an old pub right off the highway, kissing next to a dented mailbox. 

When the afternoon starts tipping towards its end, Jim leads Ross miles off the main road to a small town; they take a room in the inn and go to the castle that sits perched on the hill above the village. They roam the old courtyards, trailing behind a tour they paid for, until they lose the group completely and use the moment of solitude to kiss against an old tapestry depicting a deer hunt.

The guide that leads in the following tour is not pleased to discover them molesting a piece of mediaeval heritage, but they leave the room laughing. Nothing can dampen this leave-taking, this bid for freedom, this honeymoon of sorts.

 

The next day, clouds shift inland from the sea and hang heavy over them as they push ever north. Despite its menacing mask the weather holds off until the evening, only the wind that has carried it in tossing Jim’s hair and pushing at his motorcycle at times. Ross can feel the wind’s strength under his hands on the steering wheel. He suggests they find a place to stay early on; Jim refuses and they cover another eighty miles before he concedes. The first few drops of rain hit the sidewalk as they push open the door into a drab roadside motel’s lobby. Jim’s hands are cold under his gloves and he looks stiff. Ross think that maybe if it rained, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

It doesn’t just rain; it pours bottomless, tipped-over buckets out of a warm summer storm. The next morning, Jim insists they try and drive, impatience showing its horns; it takes large doses of logic and a bit of suggestive coercion on Ross’ side to convince him otherwise. Not that Ross isn’t itching to put distance between their past and their future – he is. But not at the risk of Jim’s health and safety.  
In the end, Jim gives in, though his restlessness takes some time to subside. But Ross knows where to direct it to find an outlet for it.

A call to the front desk makes the room theirs for a few more nights and they take advantage of their inability to travel and leave the bed only for the most urgent calls of nature. The TV stays on perpetually, semi-loud and set to a music channel, to do the job the thin walls aren’t capable of doing. 

 

The rain lasts two days. By the end, the restlessness is coming back to them both, though having had all that time to just be alone with each other and no other obligations has done wonders to their psyches. 

Shy sunlight leads them out of the town and up the highway, damp from the last residual sprinkles. For two more days, weather favors them. It’s only when they get to their desired city that the sky opens again, soaking Jim to the bone as they cover the last few miles to a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town. They unload their stuff and Jim takes a hot shower to warm up, then they go out to the nearest pub and get crazy drunk to celebrate reaching their destination.

Their determination to start arranging their new life is tempered by raging headaches on the following morning. On top of that, as they scan apartments to rent in the local ads, Jim starts sneezing his head off, so Ross adds Jim’s health to his list of things to worry about right next to getting a place to live, a place to work, and the myriad of paperwork that is bound to go with that.

By the time they head out to see their first apartment Jim has a full blown cold, but despite Ross’ concerns, it doesn’t seem to slow him down at all. His mood stays bright even when the place turns out to be a dump, and the place after it a little too expensive. The third place ends up getting rented just an hour before their scheduled tour.

Four days later, they still haven’t found anything suitable and Ross begins to get anxious. Maybe they should rent that first apartment, awful as it was, and look for a place from there? Jim, coming out on the other side of the cold with a raw nose and a lingering cough but otherwise almost back to full health, insists that they keep on looking, that they will surely find the right place soon and it is not worth signing a contract that they will want to get out of anyway. Ross can’t ever resist the optimism in Jim’s eyes so he agrees. At least Jim is now feeling better and they have a small cushion of savings to tide them over before they are settled. So what could go wrong?

He finds out exactly what when the cold virus attacks him in turn. He shrugs his symptoms off as a minor annoyance at first; Jim’s just had the same thing, how bad could it be? Except by day three he has a fever and a deep chesty cough and by day five his lungs hurt and each breath costs him so much energy that he can barely afford to spend it on anything else. Up until now he’s declined Jim’s suggestions to find a doctor or go to the hospital – though he does swallow whatever medicine Jim thrusts in front of him. But when Jim realizes that Ross’ lips are tinged with blue and that Ross can barely open his eyes or lift his head, he goes into a full action mode, first cursing himself for listening to his stubborn husband and then promptly carrying Ross to his car and driving him to the hospital at a speed that is decidedly not legal.

Two hours later, they are inhabiting a different sort of a room: one in the intensive care unit of the nearest hospital where Ross, the verdict of pneumonia freshly scribbled in his chart, is subjected to a series of prodding by doctors and nurses both and then to intravenous antibiotics and oxygen treatments.

When there is a momentary lull in activity, Jim pulls the nearest plastic chair as close as Ross’ hospital bed would let him, the metal legs creaking on the linoleum. Ross feels delirious, almost unreal; the meds make his head swim on the verge of consciousness, the relief they bring to his exhausted body makes him feel like he’s drifting in space. Jim’s eyes are bright with concern and to Ross they are like two sparkling azure pools in which he could easily drown right now and not mind. Weakly, he extends a hand to Jim and when Jim takes it, the coolness of it makes Ross shiver to the bone.

“I can’t believe you’ve ended up in the hospital again,” Jim sighs. “Is this a regular pastime of yours that you forgot to mention?”

“Only since I’ve met you. At least I didn’t get shot this time,” Ross exhales. “I kept my promise.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Jim smiles wryly, his thumb rubbing the top of Ross’ hand. “But we’ve got to get you better, baby.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ross assures him; anything to make the worry in Jim’s eyes ease off. Though it’s not fun to push words past the swollen lymph nodes in his throat and the washboard that seems to be stuck in his throat. “You should go, look at more apartments -“

Jim shakes his head again, vehemently enough to make his curls cascade over one another. “Whatever trash we haven’t seen yet can wait. I’m not leaving you until I know you’re on the mend.”

“You never needed to borrow my stubbornness, did you?” Ross manages to in a hoarse whisper.

Jim half-smiles and tucks Ross’ blanket tighter, and Ross dozes off in his fevered state with Jim’s increasingly warm hand as the one tether to reality that he needs.

 

Two days later Jim resumes the search, going out for tours and sending photos to Ross who is now off the IV but still in the hospital till his oxygen levels are under control and his lungs healed. The second place Jim visits happens to be the best by far and the agency agrees to hold it till Ross is released. 

The moment he gets discharged they head over to a neat, narrow street lined with apartment complexes, the buildings all sporting the same beige vinyl siding, white doors, and shared, covered staircases that lead to the second and third floor apartments. Luckily the one they are looking at is on the ground floor, requiring minimal exertion, but Ross still coughs his way through the final viewing and signing of the lease, feeling as weak as a two-day puppy. 

But it’s worth it: the place is theirs. It’s not big but it’s clean and fairly new: a tiny rectangle of space with one bedroom, a living room with a brick fireplace and two windows, a kitchen with a dining nook and a sliding door that leads to a tiny patio and a square of grass in the back. 

As soon as the keys jingle in Jim’s hand, they settle the charge at the hotel and bring in their bags. It’s just them and empty walls and floors, but all they see is the potential.

 

The next day Ross musters all his strength so they can go look for used furniture, sectioning a portion of their savings to purchase a red, thread-worn couch, chairs and a table, a mattress and a headboard. The rest can come later, when they’ve got jobs and hopefully a little more to work with. 

They get sheets and dishes on sale and bring it all. It’s not much, but it’s a start.  
Ross thought they’d celebrate, but they fall asleep on the unmade mattress, curled up against each other and exhausted.

 

In honor of owning a frying pan, Ross attempts to cook eggs one morning. It ends in a disaster, the smoke alarm going off and Ross having to carry the pan outside on the patio, leaving it there to cool off and hoping it’s not ruined. Jim laughs his head off and their next door neighbor who is out in the back at the moment clicks her tongue at the awful smell. So instant oatmeal goes back on the menu. 

Jim turns out to be marginally worse at cooking than Ross, and the pan ends up in trash after he tries to cook French toast. They laugh it off and go to a café to get internet for a job search. Later, someone mentions a festival in the town center; food, music, beer, and it sounds too good to pass, their stomachs convinced by the promise of street food. They stuff themselves with gyros on crunchy bread, with onions and creamy sauce, washing it down with beer. Ethnic music thrums in their ears and they follow the pull, parking themselves under the live stage with arms wrapped around each other. They stay out all night, like that time they camped out on the beach under Jim’s house, immersed in talking, watching the sky, and kissing. But this time, there is no hasty retreat in the shadows come dawn; this time they get to bring their desires back to their own place when the sun starts peeking above the horizon.

 

Ross loves it when Jim is on his lap when they make love and that’s what they do when they get home. He doesn’t have much leverage in that position but the fact that he can reach anywhere more than makes up for that. Strokes, caresses, brushes of fingers – he can touch any part of Jim he chooses. He can sweep Jim’s curls back from his face as they kiss, bunching up the mass of gold strands in his hands while licking down Jim’s throat, teeth scraping on occasion to cause a delicious tortured moan sneak past Jim’s control. He can splay his palms in the middle of Jim’s chest to feel the muscles work beneath Jim’s skin as he rises and falls in a semi-conscious rhythm in Ross’ lap, driving himself and Ross to completion. He can grasp the round globes of Jim’s buttocks, run his nails over them and revel in the goosebumps that he causes.

He can do other, filthier things - trace around the place where they are joined, the touches of his curious, reverent fingertips making Jim curse and nearly lose his mind. He can jerk Jim off in the hot space between their bodies, tease just where Jim wants and then back off at the last moment, causing more words of damnation to fall from Jim’s lips. Jim is so loose in lovemaking, so open and responsive, it never ceases to amaze Ross; it never fails to deepen that hot spring of affection bubbling within.

But his very favorite thing is when they finally let things go; when Jim’s thighs start shaking from exertion and their moans reach a fevered pitch, when they are both so high on love that all they can do is cling to one another as they brace for the inevitable flight and crash. He can feel the peak start in Jim, his body tightening involuntarily around Ross, and Jim’s hold on Ross’ shoulders gets almost painful with desperation. When they get there, Jim goes rigid in his arms, his moans unrestrained and drawn-out until they are both spent. 

The sun is a little higher in the sky when Ross pulls them both down, ignoring the sticky and wet aftereffects that need tending in favor of prolonging the moment before they have to separate. He stays close, trapping Jim in that sweaty bubble of post-orgasmic laziness, kissing his breathless mouth and whispering confessions that are long since known. And Jim grins and replies in kind, accepting Ross’ need to linger, his smile bright and light even though his first instinct is usually to get up and clean them both off. But he knows that Ross needs these moments, that he can’t just let go so fast, so he indulges that need.

In the morning light, the barrage of hormones flooding him makes Ross somber and grateful, and he props his chin so he can see Jim’s face better. The things that could have happened still haunt him even if they didn’t come to be and even now his brain runs through each and every one of those fears, ticking them off one by one with terror and relief mixing. 

What if the police had caught them during that insane chase? What if Silver had? Would they have been torn apart, marriage annulled by the right person being bribed to wipe if off the registry?

What if Jim hadn’t been able to get to the town hall, what if they hadn’t gotten married in the first place – 

What if Ross had gone to prison, leaving Jim to fend for himself?

He could have been caught the first time he went over the wall of the Hawkins mansion… They’d never have gotten to know each other, and all there ever would have been were a few words in a dark garden and one searing kiss…

Ross can’t help but play out all those scenarios in his head as he traces Jim’s features, calm and relaxed. It scares him that this future might not have come to pass, that he might not have been able to ever – or ever again – feel Jim’s chest rise against his, fast and rushed at times or peaceful and steady at others, like now.

Only when Jim wriggles underneath him does Ross jolt out of the broody mire he’d sunken into. Jim opens his mouth to say something but the intended words die on his lips when he sees Ross’ intense expression. 

“What’s the matter, baby?” he asks, concern coloring his voice, a frown settling in the clear lines of his eyebrows. 

Ross meets his gaze and just like that the past and the possible, unwanted futures dissolve. He shakes his head. “Nothing. Should I go get a towel?”

“Yeah,” Jim answers lightly, but Ross can feel his gaze on him as he stands up to take the few steps to the bathroom and he can guess it’s not just to check out his ass (though he does hope that it’s at least a part of the reason). He grabs a towel and makes a mental note to stash a few of them next to their bed since they keep on falling into it un prepared, their need to make love often hitting them out of the blue and not letting them pause for anything when it does.

He wets the towel under the faucet, taking the time to let the water warm up. He cleans himself, then he goes back to the bedroom, Jim doing so as well with an unashamed, matter-of-fact attitude. He tosses the towel on the floor and pulls Ross back to him. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he says, and although Ross’ face is pressed against Jim’s neck, he can sense Jim’s creased eyebrows in his voice.

Ross sighs. “Do you ever wonder what it’d be like if things didn’t play out as they did? If they had gone wrong somewhere?”

Jim’s arm around Ross’ ribs tightens in a barely perceptible way.

“All the time.”

 

And it’s not that just because the past didn’t play out in any of the horrific ways it might have that their future is assured to be a breezy walk on clouds. They are thrilled to be have a new beginning but Ross is sometimes plagued with doubts. Is this what Jim really wants? Can they make it? Can they find their place in a world so different from the one they grew up in, without all the comforts and securities they were so used to they didn’t even have to give them second thoughts?

Sometimes Ross feels guilty that he is depriving Jim of a life in which he wouldn’t have to worry about the next paycheck and if they can afford to buy a bedframe just yet. They have a little bit of savings but for now they’ve forgone many of their previous lives’ comforts and sometimes it feels like they’ve been thrown into a real world like into the deep end, figuring out how to swim and tread water as they go. 

But Jim doesn’t seem to mind. Not the uncertainty, not the tight budget. And truthfully, they are both constantly aware of what could have been instead, as if the adrenaline rush of that motorcycle chase and police stand-off was still not quite flushed out of their systems. They have the scar on Ross’ shoulder to remind them, a jagged circle of a souvenir from the time that they dared to put everything on the line, their lives included. For this. For breakfasts gone wrong, a snickering neighbor, for having to figure out what they want to be instead of having their lives outlined by their heritage. They’ve fought hard and won.

Though maybe they should skip cooking altogether for a time.

 

Jim gets restive sometimes, though, and it troubles Ross. They’d both applied for jobs, Ross mostly for entry-level management at construction places and factories; he likes the idea of things being made, built. Jim, though, seems a bit un-anchored and undecided and so far, he’s only applied as a courier at a messenger service and as a barista at a café a few blocks down that had a “now hiring” sign on their door when they went in for cappuccinos. He tells Ross one night, as he expertly winds spaghetti covered in a canned sauce around his fork, that he wants to keep things open for now. Maybe he’d want to go back to school if they could afford it, but he’s still thinking about what degree to go for and if he wants to commit to that. Ross takes a sip of water from a red plastic tumbler and tells Jim to take his time. Later, when the lights are turned off and Ross is nearly drifting off to sleep, Jim gets up and pulls out his laptop, his expression of near furious concentration on whatever he is searching making Ross both hopeful and afraid.

Ross takes a job of a supervisor at an assembly line, leaving Jim to find his own place in the world.

 

The job turns out to be shitty and Ross’ boss a loud-mouthed asshole. Ross comes home increasingly disillusioned and mentally exhausted, Jim joining him after his shift at the café is over. They start attempting to make a meal most nights to save money, sometimes almost succeeding and sometimes ordering pizza instead of even trying. They laugh at their failures and then watch TV or go bowling or to the pub. 

They are happy enough. But Ross can’t purge that worm of worry from his gut every time Jim’s blue- green eyes get a disconcerted look in them when he thinks Ross isn’t watching. Then there are times Ross catches Jim aiming an anxious look at him, but when he asks what’s on Jim’s mind, Jim plays it off and distracts Ross with a display of dimples and a kiss. 

Which, Ross is slightly ashamed to admit to himself later, works every god damn time.

 

“Maybe you should look for a different job if this one makes you unhappy,” Jim says one night when they lie in bed. It’s dark and only occasional street sounds and passing headlights invade their quiet bedroom.

“The paycheck isn’t bad,” Ross replies.

“You could start searching while you still work there,” Jim suggests, sounding serious. “I don’t like the way you look when you come home.”

Home. It hits Ross like a powerful wave under his heart, sending everything in him into a turmoil of emotion. 

He breathes out slowly, closes his eyes and finds Jim’s hand blindly, squeezing it. “I’ll start looking tomorrow.”

 

As fall days get shorter, Jim’s restlessness increases. One Saturday he asks if Ross would mind him going for a ride – on his own. Ross inclines his head and sends Jim off, but the entire time Jim is gone, he frets about what that means. He covers his own anxiety by going out to shop to restock and maybe cook a decent meal, then peruses online job listings. He tries to fry breaded chicken but it ends up on the porch again, trailing a swirl of dark smoke. He coughs and curses, kicking the door in anger and then cursing again for the stubbed toe he’d just caused himself. The middle-aged neighbor on the open patio next to theirs – tending an herb that vines itself around a supportive stick in its pot – straightens up to look at him. She usually stays quiet but this time she can’t seem to hold back.

“What is it? Eggs again?” She speaks with a light, barely perceptible accent.

Ross purses his lips, embarrassment and annoyance welling up, but he refrains from a curt retort and instead fesses up in a low voice. “Chicken.”

She tssks. “What were you trying to do?”

“I was frying it.” He looks at the pitiful, blackened cutlets in the pan. 

“A little too much frying, I think,” she says, a little smile playing around her lips. 

Ross takes a deep breath and this time that irritated response is so close to the tip of his tongue that he can taste it, feel it hover there. He pushes it back. “I see that now,” he says, at least allowing himself to sound as bitter as he feels. 

She chuckles and Ross turns on his heel to leave. She surprises him however when she speaks again. “I can show you how to cook it properly if you would like.”

Ross pauses, his eyebrows doing that thing they always do as he looks back at her in wonder, one foot in between the sliding door already. “You would?”

“Sure. Or one day, you might burn both of our apartments down with your ‘cooking’,” she adds in a wry tease.

With the three pieces of chicken left in the package, she teaches him how to tenderize the meat, how to whisk the egg better and stretch it out with milk or beer. She shows him how to bread the chicken, that he can add a few spices to the mix for a different flavor. She fetches her own frying pan since Ross’ new one will require some extensive scrubbing before being usable again. The end result is three golden-fried pieces of meat that smell and look heavenly. She gives him tips on how to cook rice without having to use a measuring cup, then instructs him on how to season it. Ross’ head spins as he tries to take it all in.

“You got all that?” she says finally when the cooking is done.

“I think so,” Ross frowns. “Thanks for the lesson. It seems simple when you do it…”

“It is simple, once you know the basics.” She tilts her head at him, her long black hair sliding down her shoulder. “I’m Consuela, by the way.”

“Ross,” he says, and they shake hands, Ross’ still greasy and the hair on his forearm sprinkled with flour; he dusts it off.

“That young man who lives with you, is he your boyfriend?”

She keeps her tone neutral and he can’t tell if she disapproves or not. It’s a new thing, here, that some people frown upon two men being in a relationship; he’s used to societal disapproval stemming from clan lines, not sexes.

He decides to hide nothing though. “He’s my husband.”

“I see,” she says, her dark brown eyes narrowing infinitesimally. “Aren’t you two quite young to be married?”

Ross almost smiles. Their age hasn’t been on his mind either when he’d tried to convince Jim that they should go through with the madness. And twenty-three and twenty-one, respectively, isn’t that young anyway; after this summer, Ross feels ten years older and ten years happier. He shrugs. 

“We… had a very small window. It was unexpected...”

She nods, a curious tilt of her head telling Ross that she’s sensed there’s a lot more to the story, but to his relief, she doesn’t enquire further. “I suppose if you love each other, it’s all that matters.” She looks around, nodding. “Well, I will leave you to it. Maybe now there’s a smaller chance of you burning both of our places down?”

“On that note,” Ross says, hesitating only slightly before daring to further encroach on her goodwill, “could you teach me how to fry eggs as well?”

 

Jim comes back an hour later, windswept and looking fresher. He stares at the food on the counter as if it’s been magicked from a different reality and then looks to Ross for an explanation.

“I had a visit from a Fairy Godmother,” Ross replies to the unspoken inquiry. He’d cut up the eggs Consuela had helped him fry and tossed them into the rice. She’d even brought some peas and corn to add to the mix. 

“Can she stop by more often?” Jim says, tossing his leather jacket and gloves over the back of their shabby couch and walking straight up into Ross’ space to give him a kiss and make him yelp when cold hands sneak up his chest. 

“Is that the reward I get for all this hard work?” Ross asks, delighting in the lightness that seems to be returning to Jim. “Freezing fingers up the front of my shirt?”

“For now,” Jim says with a hint of an amorous promise in his eyes. He can’t help but eye the food though. “This looks amazing. Thanks for going to such trouble.”

“As the Fairy Godmother pointed out, it’s in the public interest that you and I learned to cook if she doesn’t want her place reduced to ashes one day along with ours,” Ross points out.

Jim raises astonished eyebrows. “Fairy godmother is our neighbor?”

Ross nods, then steers Jim to the small rectangle table under the window. “Come on, it’s been sitting here long enough.”

Later Jim’s fingers are not so cold anymore when he rewards Ross for the culinary experience in quite a different way. He goes down on him in with so much unabashed enthusiasm that Ross has to curb his moans in order to spare their neighbor the rather loud consequences of her teaching skills. 

After Jim brings Ross to a fast and intense finish with his mouth, he crawls back up and rolls him over, Ross as malleable as pastry dough in his hands while still wallowing in the receding tides of bliss. They make love under the covers, Jim biting at Ross’ neck as he drives into him in long and deep thrusts that make them moan in unison. Ross pushes up against Jim’s rocking hips, reveling in the weight of Jim’s body against his own back. The wet slide between them makes his toes curl and he clamps down the urge to beg Jim to go faster, deeper, to never let him go. It feels so good he thinks he might fly apart any second. Jim goes slow, like he’s trying to make it last forever, until Ross can no longer muffle the sounds coming from his mouth nor hold back his pleas for more. He groans in appreciation when Jim rises up to his knees in an answer to his begging, bringing Ross’ hips with him and holding them in place so he can take him as hard as Ross is asking.

“Like this?” Jim grits out between harsh breaths as he sets up a fast rhythm. 

“Yes,” Ross exhales forcefully. “Fuck me, Jim, please…”

Jim growls and fulfills the request. Ross throws his head back, letting the tide take him again.

 

Jim drives out alone the next weekend and the next and each time it is more difficult for Ross to not ask why, to just let Jim go without expressing his worry. He tells himself, it’s only natural that Jim needs time alone, maybe he needs to think, sort things out, decide. New-found freedom can be stifling in a way, so many choices and Jim just needs time to sort them through... But as much as Ross tries to convince himself of that, he still frets as he watches Jim’s bike glide along the row of identical apartments until it disappears around the corner with one last rumble of its engine. Ross spends the time continuing his mission to find a better job, since a few of his applications went unanswered; he goes for a run, he tries to cook something again. This time, though, rather than risking failure, he knocks on Consuela’s door. 

Sometimes, though, sometimes the worry is near deafening. 

 

“Ross?!” 

Jim walks into the dark flat upon returning from one of his rides and Ross is relieved to see him; at the same time, he can’t seem to break out of the fretful spell that’s been hovering over him since dusk. He says nothing till Jim spots him, sitting folded with his back against the arm of the red couch. When Jim comes closer, bringing with him the scent of the coast and breeze and autumn chill, Ross finally looks up, extending a hand. Jim accepts, sitting down next to him with a tinge of concern in his face. “What’s the matter, baby?”

Ross shrugs. “Nothing, just… I was a little worried, that’s all.”

“About what?” Jim says. “Me being out?”

Ross nods.

“I’m back now,” Jim says. “Nothing happened to me.”

“Yeah.” Ross sighs and tries to smile, but it’s pitiful effort. He decides maybe it’s time to confess what’s been on his mind before it suffocates him. He takes a deep breath and plunges in. “I’m not worried so much about you getting hurt, though that does occasionally cross my mind. I’ve witnessed firsthand what you can do with that bike… But to be honest, I’m more worried about the why.”

“Why what, why do I ride out alone like that?” Jim says, and he reaches out in the grainy dimness of the room, his hand claiming a strand of Ross’ hair between cool fingertips. The touch goes through Ross, making him ache.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “It makes me wonder if you’re unhappy here, if something’s wrong -“

Jim doesn’t move except for the continued caress. “You think I’m not happy?”

“You seem restless sometimes.”

“Maybe I am a little,” Jim admits. “But -“

“Sometimes I think,” Ross ventures to speak his most anxious thought, “that maybe you regret tying yourself to me, so quickly – going from one prospective marriage to another, maybe you’d be happiest starting completely free, on your own-?”

Jim shifts, his chest suddenly pressing against Ross’s arm and side and he cups Ross’ face in the palm of his hand. “Don’t. Don’t ever think that. You are my freedom, do you understand?” Jim’s tone is vehement, brooking no doubt and argument. “It was you who showed me that I could be free, you made me free by barging in and insisting I stand up and act, that my future is mine to decide instead of being jerked around by other people’s designs. I decided to be with you. I just – sometimes – “

Ross bites his lip, the turmoil inside him lessening; pacified in part by the fire behind Jim’s words. He looks at Jim’s face and he sees an echo there of the Jim he had met: devoid of hope, resigned, withdrawn. But the new Jim is there also; animated, passionate, bold. The Jim that has been hiding inside the whole time, not daring to seize his own life. Until now. And yet -

Jim sighs. “Sometimes I just need to clear my head. It’s a habit from before, the bike was the only way I could get away from everything when it got too much, even if my parents always had me tailed by security. But I could shake them off for a while, just be me with nothing but the wheels and the road and the view.” He pauses. “It’s how I process things, Ross. But I’m happy, as long as - “

“As long as what?”

Jim gives a tiny shrug, twists his lip between his teeth. “I feel like I’m not pulling my weight right now and I wonder if you are getting tired of that... I’ve been taking forever deciding what I want to do and meanwhile you work your ass off at a job you don’t even like so we can afford a decent place to stay - “

“You work too,” Ross points out.

“Yeah but that’s hardly the same. That’s hardly going to be my career.”

Ross looks at him. “What’s it matter? We’re doing fine right now.”

“I guess,“ Jim says, pulling a booted foot up onto the couch. “I don’t think it’s fair to you, though.”

Ross feels the stubborn gene of his come to life. It’s like a switch that gets turned on without him consciously thinking of it. “Fuck fair. It’s your life. If  
I’m your freedom, then I’m telling you that you’re free to do this right.”

Jim holds his gaze, then relents with a nod. “Okay. But it’s not just my life, Ross. It’s our life.”

“Yeah.” That last statement brings a smile to Ross’ face. “Yeah, it is. And we’ll figure it out. However long it takes.”

 

Ross interviews for a position at a smelting company the next week. Jim switches shifts and goes with him, waiting outside while Ross is in the office building. 

It looks very promising, the senior management quite impressed with Ross; they even give him an impromptu tour of the smelting works afterwards when he expresses interest. 

Jim’s grin is like sunshine when Ross finally emerges, feeling extremely positive about this. They go celebrate Ross’ success at the interview with a good meal and dessert and bowling and a long night of passion that leaves them bleary-eyed and almost late for work the next morning.

On Saturday, Jim drives out again and despite last weekend’s talk, Ross’ fretful demons slowly steal back.

Over an attempted batch of cookies, Ross tells Consuela what weighs on him, tells her some of their history. These sessions have almost become a regular occurrence and Ross looks forward to them; they are sort of like therapy. Consuela seems happy to show him various culinary secrets as well as listen. Though she has yet to meet Jim properly.

“No wonder you can’t cook,” she teases when Ross finishes the abbreviated version of events that lead Jim and Ross to living here. She looks at him with a slightly different light in her dark eyes when she next speaks. “But look at how much you both have been through. It takes time to reset your life – believe me, I know something about it. And maybe Jim needs more time to wrap his head around it. Don’t worry so much. He’ll get there. You’re doing all you can, Ross.”

“You think so?” Ross wipes his hands on a kitchen towel, a frown of doubt settled on his forehead once more.

“Oh yes. I’ve seen you two together, walking past my window to your car, coming home from town - it’s clear Jim loves you as much as you love him.  
He looks at you that way… like you are everything. The same way you look at him. It’s a rare thing you two have.”

Ross grins like a fool at that, fidgeting awkwardly with a baking sheet that has lines of cookie dough ready for baking on it. “I hope I make him happy.”

“You most certainly do.” Consuela checks the timer for the batch that is already inside the oven, then leans closer and winks at Ross. “My poor ears can attest to it too... The walls aren’t that thick here, you know.”

Ross’ cheeks ignite with a furious blush. “Oh Christ.”

“Don’t worry,” Consuela laughs at his embarrassment. “I always remember to turn my radio way up now.”

 

Jim comes back earlier than usual that afternoon, minutes after Consuela leaves. He kicks the door closed and ambles towards Ross who is washing dishes in the kitchen. Shedding his bike-riding gear along the way, Jim stops right next to him. His hair is spattered with the first drops of a November rain shower when Ross turns to him. 

“It smells like heaven in here,” Jim says, bypassing Ross’ mouth and kissing his jaw instead.

“Consuela showed me how to bake cookies,” Ross smiles cautiously against Jim’s cold face. “How was your ride?”

“Nice,” Jim says. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Ross replies. He almost tells Jim about Consuela having overheard their carnal activities, but then he refrains. “Want something to warm you up?”

“Hmm, tea and cookies would be amazing,” Jim says, nuzzling lower, into Ross’ neck. “And you.”

"Don't even think about putting your cold fingers under my clothes," Ross laughs into his hair. They stand quiet and motionless for a while, stray suds of dish soap dripping from Ross’ hands.

“So, on the ride today,” Jim speaks then, “I decided that I want go back to playing the piano. And maybe – maybe I want to get a degree that has something to do with music…”

Ross pulls back to look at him, excitement stirring in him at Jim’s tentative news. “Yeah? You want to be a music teacher or something like that?”

“I was actually thinking musical therapy,” Jim admits.

“Oh? That sounds great, even if I have no idea what that entails… Are you sure about it?”

“I think I am,” Jim says. “But it would mean five years of school. Can we manage that?”

“Hell yes.” Ross’ excitement grows and then pours out via his grin, until Jim gets infected by the raw enthusiasm in it and they both end up smiling at each other like besotted lunatics. “Of course we can fucking manage that. We’ll need to get you a piano…” The wheels inside Ross’ head start turning, already planning.

Jim laughs. “A used keyboard would do for a start.” He pulls Ross closer, staring up at him intently. “Always so ready to jump into action, o’ fair knight of the skies.”

“More like a fair knight of the kitchen, these days,” Ross says, his tone wry.

Jim snickers back at him, eyes dancing. “It suits you, baby. And thank you for giving me all this time to decide. Wanna ride out together next weekend? Or Consuela could teach us how to make something new… Maybe I’m not as hopeless at cooking as I assumed...”

“Both. Yes.” Ross’ grin widens. “I’m sure she’d love that.”

Jim smiles, dimples deepening. “Speaking of which, did I tell you I love you yet?”

“You’re just saying that because of the cookies,” Ross replies with a raised eyebrow, Jim’s irresistible smile making his heart sing. “But I’ll take it anyway. And for the record, angel, I love you too.”

“That’s settled then.” Jim’s eyes sparkle as reaches up to kiss Ross’ nose. “Now can I have a cookie?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3


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